Well, Dad didn’t ask for the bed, it just arrived, but I wasn’t going to get into it.
He wasn’t comfortable. I actually thought that sleeping on his back with his knees raised would help his back. But Dad is a side sleeper. It comes, I guess from all those years spooning with Mom.
Anyway, I taught him how to lay there, but when he woke up in the night to go to the bathroom, he coudn’t manuver the bed to flat so he could get out.
I didn’t have a problem with the bed, but I am especially proud that he handled it himself. He also canceled the chair, but may go check one out that is closer.
I thought the bed could have done him some good, but I didn’t like the idea of it in the house. AND I am very proud that he took charge and handled it himself. The brat in me kind of likes thumming at the nurse, although she is really good and cares about him. I am feeling vindicated that I do know him better than she does.
Thursday night and suddenly Dad has a hospital bed in his room. Tara, his nurse was here and Dad smiled when he described how she took down his old bed. She has been talking for a while about how he needed one. Medicare paid for a lot of it, but a couple of hundred came from him. His insurance won’t pay.
My sudden job is to help him learn to live with it. And to deal with my feelings. I want Dad to make his own decisions, I get upset with people who talk to me in front of him, as if it weren’t about him. Yet, I am bothered that this happened without my knowledge. I am not going to say anything, just help him.
Now, Dad sleeps on his back, not really possible in a hospital bed. However, I know that sleeping with bent knees will help his back AND he easily sleeps in a chair. So I try to convince him to crank up the back and the legs and pretend that he is in a chair.
The first night was ok, he had a good night sleep. But this morning he is ‘sick’. He can’t explain why. I think it has to do with the fact that he didn’t sleep last night. On top of that, he couldn’t get out of bed when he had to go to the bathroom. He just wants to call them to get rid of the bed and if they won’t take it he will cancel the lift chair.
That is how he is handling the changes. Get rid of them.
I am trying to help him talk about it. 30 years as a therapist, I am pretty good at it, and I use all my skills.
I have mixed feelings. I am not sure why this happened so suddenly, although I am sure Tara doesn’t think it is sudden. I asked Dad to make sure that he knew the bed was coming. The answer isn’t really clear. I know she wants what is she thinks is best for him, but she has an agenda.
I am going to have to step in and deal with Tara and why things are happening so fast. Why is she dealing with an equipment company in Knightdale when there is one a mile from here where he could go in and try these things out before they are delivered?
I want to bury my head and not deal with any of it. I don’t want to be responsible for these things. But I am.
Annie Gottlieb moved from her home in Manhattan, New York to care for her husband, Jacque, in Chapel Hill, NorthCarolina. Jacques is a bear of a man who once escaped a Soviet gulag. Annie has written or collaborated on many books, and Jacque has co- written one about his amazing story, DONBAS: A True Story of an Escape Across Russia on Amazon. See excerpts
I first saw Annie’s name when I bought a self help book, decades ago, that she had co-authored. For some reason she became one of my heros. Then I had put an ad in Craigslist to find someone to help me with a project and couldn’t believe when her name came up. She was living in Chapel Hill, NC now and willing to work on my project. I couldn’t believe it.
It turned out that she was and is there because her husband was in advanced stages of a degenerative neurological disease. He was a boxer and had a ready made support group in North Carolina. Fortunately Annie, a freelance writer, could work any where.
Annie is a tiny woman, and Jacque is a big man, still even with the illness. She is responsible for all his bodily functions as well as getting him up out of bed whenever she can. Despite the community she is left with the vast majority of the work.
I was fortunate one day when I was there that he was at his most lucid. We had a conversation while sitting at the table. I knew he was a shadow of his former self, as he had trouble forming words, certainly sentences, but his eyes twinkled and he flattered me by saying I was interesting. I could certainly understand why Annie loved him so much to spend these, her early golden years, with such a constant burden.
I think of Annie when I get down in the dumps. She doesn’t have the nurses or home visiting doctors, she moved to a community without family or friends. She is an amazing woman caretaking an amazing man. Keep her in your prayers and buy some of their books.
The cast of characters is changing. For a long time Dad has had a weekly nurse who comes to the house weekly, his and my friend Rose, who takes him out at least weekly, and me, with an occasional therapist or doctor. Really easy to keep track of.
Then Tara his nurse decided that he needed to be with someone all day, or go to assited living. My brother and I looked into assisted living a few years back when Mom was alive and Dad might have been too sick to care for her. They didn’t need it, but I found out enough about it to know the dark side, (Assited Living, An Option) and I know Dad wouldn’t like it for many reasons. It was the first time Tara and I came to ‘blows’. I found Barbara, who was nice, worked hard (great at kitchen cleaning!) but was inexperienced and didn’t want to give him a bath. Besides Dad wasn’t comfortable having someone here all day and when I had time at home, I didn’t really like it either.
Queen had recently been sent over two days a week to bath him, because being in the shower wasn’t safe. Dad really liked her, so we arranged to have her come three times a day to check in on him, and cook meals. Well, that works well, except that she isn’t a very good cook and doesn’t clean much.
I got home today with a note fom Tara. She is having someone come to interview with Dad on Friday. It seems that she and the therapist were both here in the am, Dad was alone and they though he was shaking on his feet. If Dad is interviewing why did she write me. Well, I know why. But did she mean to make me out to be a bad daughter like I feel I am when I get such notes.
When I got the first woman so quickly I marveled at my good luck. Then when Queen came on I was still very happy. However, I guess it just isn’t going to be all that easy.
You have to put the oxygen mask on yourself before you put it on the kids. You have take care of yourself to take care of an elderly parent. I have an additional reason.
Dad has always been a hard working guy, never content to sit for too long without finding some work to do*. But he’s a man of his generation and ‘working out’ is silly. He never did it. I can’t say for sure that it would have made a difference, but his two big problems today are his balance and that he can’t lift his feet high enough to walk safely. I hate seeing him this way. He is frustrated, he could fall and it is why he can’t be left alone for long. My heart breaks for him.
And it terrifies me because I know I will live a long time and I don’t want it to be like that. So I have started back on my Pilattes. This is a system that focuses on the core (abdominal) area, but is also great for Michelle Obama arms and other areas. I find that I can build up a relatively decent heart rate. You can go to a gym 3 times a week and pay a lot of money. You can get tapes and do it without a machine (waaaay too hard for me) or you can buy a relatively inexspensive home machine, like I did, two years ago. I was doing it daily, until I stopped. The rub, huh?
The first time I found that about a week and a half into it my shoulders naturally pulled back into a straighter posture as I walked. I gave it no effort, it just happened. Now, I have a good posture, one of the many gifts from my Dad. Dad insisted that I walk straight and tall from an early age. The involuntary straightening reminded me of Dad’s touching my shoulders showing me how to walk.
So I start again, with Dad and his current problems as a motive.
I find that one piece of wisdom from the fitness gurus isn’t true. I have always heard them say that once you stop exercising you quickly lose all the gains. Well, I have found its not true. It took me weeks to do the ‘elephant’ advanced, but now I am ok. Not as good as when I stopped, but much better than when I started the first time. After a year and a half, I am still carrying benefits. This is not a reason to quit, but a reason to do it, knowing that whatever you do, if you get good enough, will have long lasting effects. Its just so much better when you continue.
BTW, there is lots we can do to stay healthier longer and even younger. Is 60 the New 40?
* When Dad was 85 he had quintupal bipass surgery. They sent him home after 5 days with strick instructions, one of which was to not lift anything heavier than a milk carton. A week after he got home, I walk through the guest house to find him turning my mother’s mattress over. Hmmm…. “Dad, is that heavier than a milk carton”? … “Well, I can’t sit around being lazy forever!” Dad was a hard worker, but not the kind that helped make him stronger in his old age.
Long story short. I came home early, Dad’s day companion, Queen, wasn’t there. She was out doing other work, but was supposed to bring back milk. She forgot the milk. I felt like I should go get it. I felt bad when she said she would. I made myself stay home, but made some excuse about it being too hot to go out again. (Boy was that lame, it was just as hot for her). She didn’t seem to think anything of it.
But its weird being home and sitting while someone else is making Dad’s dinner, getting his milk. I was fine when he did it, but this is hard.
So while I can complain about being overwhelmed with too much to do, I also have a difficulty watching someone work in my home. Hmmmm…..
But I did it. Now all I have to do is get up the nerve to tell her that Dad needs her meatloaf to be more solid!
I am a very lucky person as my Dad is really very easy to get along with. Its a pleasure to do for him. He does as much as he can but sometimes that is a problem. “Dad its easier for me to do your laundry than worry about you failing”. People love him, although if there are too many people he doesn’t talk.
Heck, I just wanted to show you a couple of pictures.
Dad was really depressed yesterday. One of the things that helps me get through this is that Dad seems to want to be alive and there are things that he looks forward to, from his date nights with Rose, to ‘I hope I live long enough to see if this Obama stuff works’, even though he doesn’t think it will.
But when he is so depressed it makes it harder to hold on.
He had had a bad night, not much sleep. That his meds are making a lot of drool is embarrassing to him, and I have to admit, unpleasant for me. His new assistant thinks its the meds. I have no doubt about it.
“I am going to tell the nurse that I am going off all my meds, except for 3, the heart, blood pressure and ..” I don’t remember what else.But he didn’t say it with strength, but anger and depression.
I am actually with him on this. I am suspicious of too many meds. The doc says he must have each and every one. In which case Dad is saying, ‘I won’t live this way’. I am not going to fight him on it. I am staying out of it. Its his choice.
He was better by evening. Queen had given him one of the baths that he loves so. Rose came over and talked about her problems with her girlfriend. Dad loves to help her with he love life.
But, damn its hard when Dad is depressed. Its harder to keep my spirits up and that scares me.
Dad is frustrated that he isn’t learning his new Hoveround instantly. Never mind that the guy who delivered it, a young, perfectly sighted man with no shaking hands, took two full days to master it. Dad is frustrated.
Me? I am proud of him. In three days, but with a hour or so of practice, he can get it through narrow doorways, from his living room to his bedroom. He says that walker is faster. “Dad, this isn’t about speed” And I smile. He does laugh at it though and is begging to feel better.
We got him this, because the nurse doesn’t want him walking or standing when he is alone in the house. We are supposed to even get urinals for him to use from the chair, but I will be surprised if that happens.
There was work for me to do, though. The tech who delivered it left heavy, metal foot rests laying in the middle of the floor. Bad enough at all, but since the macular degeneration has Dad nearly blind and his balance is off, well, its worse.
I put them to the side and called to complain. I was told that he would call us back. Two days later I called back, not as nice as the first time. I was transferred around, got really mad at the 3 person and called back. The fourth lady was worth it, she put in a complaint, gave some suggestions that would make it easier for him and set it up for someone to come back. Dad would have given up long before I did. Me? I just got angrier and angrier…
Until the fourth lady, who helped us. I felt taken care of and I need that sometimes.
I came home early today, my neck was killing me. I got an Icy Hot Patch, but it still hurt.
I came home to find Dad’s new ’sitter’ with him, she announced that she wouldn’t be back next week, but had two other women who were interested. It was ok, she was nice, but I really had someone else anyway, but I still have to tell her that.
I called the other one, good discussion, but Dad got mad (such a rarity) because I was talking without him. It was his decision. I had been advocating for that. I just wanted to get it done and forgot the sensitivity.
He said he didn’t want anyone. The nurse tells me, accusingly I think, that he should have more hours than we are hiring for. I get cross right back at him.
I know that a big part of my problem is feeling like the clearing house for everyone else’s concerns and feelings.
I have to always be cheerful in front of Dad because he is so sensitive about being a burden. Any break would just convince him that it is too much for me; that he is worthless.
I have to be strong in front of the nurse who comes weekly, she cares about Dad, not me.
I can get angry with my brother, but he just turns it into his being a victim and maybe he is. I don’t know.
There is no place for me to be angry and all I know is that this is my life for the foreseeable future.
So I am starting this blog as a place for me to be totally honest and to help others who are in similar situations.
I want a community where we can let it all go. Where we can help each other, laugh, give tips. Bitch. Be happy.
I hope you will join me.
- Honoring Dad’s Birthday on January 27, 2011
- Dad Died on November 21. 2009; It Was a ‘Good Death’
- Dad Fell Again
- Some Cheer
- What to Do?
- 25 Item To-Do List EVERYONE Should Be Doing
- Are You An Optimist or a Pessimist?
- Every One Needs a Rose
- “Maybe Now You Will Call Me Fritz”
- Cutting Dad’s Meat
- The Bed Is Gone, Dad 1 Health Establishment 0
- The Equipment Arrives